


The Sound Of Sinners

by verhalen



Series: Northern Lights [9]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien, Worldweavers - Multiverse
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - 21st Century, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, BAMF Women, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/F, Family Feels, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Incestuous House Of Finwë, M/M, Magical Realism, Male-Female Friendship, No Smut, One Shot, Past Lives, Protectiveness, Punk, Reincarnation, Sibling Incest, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-09
Updated: 2019-04-09
Packaged: 2020-01-07 04:12:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18402869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verhalen/pseuds/verhalen
Summary: Set between the end of chapter 5 ofChains Of Eternityand the beginning ofDon't Threaten Me With A Good Time. Sören and Frankie meet in London, and Frankie doesn't like Sören's boyfriend Justin.Trigger warning for violence (Justin's abuse of Sören), mentioned/referenced (not detailed) rape, and Justin making gross comments about Frankie's weight.





	The Sound Of Sinners

**Author's Note:**

> Hat tip to Chantress for the name "It's A Coffee House" for the coffee house. ILU. <3
> 
> Title of this fic comes from a song by The Clash.

"Thou lovest Findis the way I love Fëanáro." There was warmth in the deep velvet voice, no judgment.  
  
Írimë swallowed hard, and nodded, meeting her brother's silver-blue eyes.  
  
"Thou knowest I understand." Fingolfin took her hand, and squeezed. He sighed, then. "I know there has been no love lost between thee and Fëanáro. But we cannot afford to be at war with each other, when the Valar themselves stand against us. And I think if thou didst come to him, and told him about Findis... it would be a place to start from."  
  
"He and I have been almost strangers all this time. I fear even that will not help."  
  
"If I say it will work, it will work. Thou dost forget how well I know him. How deeply."  
  
"I'm sure it's very deep," Írimë said, with a roll of her eyes. But then she was serious once more. "I would need thee to go to him... arrange a meeting..."  
  
"I can do that." Fingolfin nodded.  
  
Some days later, Fingolfin and Fëanor approached Írimë together. Fëanor sat, and looked at his half-sister with something other than scorn for the first time.  
  
"I am with Findis as thou art with Fingolfin," Írimë said. "The Valar would call this sin. They would judge us for it."  
  
"They  _do_  judge us for it," Fëanor said.  
  
"Fingolfin told me about... the Silmarils." Írimë's jaw set. "They have a piece of thy soul."  
  
"I put a drop of myself into all I create. But these, most especially. The Valar are not worthy to have them, when they have forsaken us... when they would punish us for being what we are."  
  
"I will not swear the Oath thy sons have sworn. But I will offer my sword and my shield." Írimë held out her hand. "I will offer my heart, if thou wouldst embrace me as a sister."  
  
Fëanor took her hand, and pulled her into his arms. He planted a kiss into her short-cropped dark hair. "We stand together, dear sister. Ever shall we defend each other."  
  
_  
  
**2015**  
_Greenwich, London, England_  
  
Mary Frances O'Riordan, called Frankie by most who knew her, was turning twenty on this balmy early August day. She didn't have many friends, and she was between girlfriends. But she would take herself on a date.  
  
Frankie decided on going to a club in London, to a combination art show and punk concert. She liked that sort of thing. She went punk as a teenager - she was all of five feet tall, on the slightly chubby side, had been a ginger before sporting her pink mohawk. She wasn't conventionally attractive, and growing up in council housing she didn't have money for the fashionable clothes the other girls were wearing. Punk let her look  _interesting_  - she could wear things from thrift shops and things she'd patched together from bits and pieces. When she was old enough to get a job and have some money of her own, she worked on a set of piercings and tattoos. She had flowered vines on her legs, thighs, and arms that led out to a Tree of Life on her back, a nod to her Celtic heritage, and above the tree was a set of stars, including a large flaming star on the back of her neck. She had gauges in her ears and several different sets of piercings in her ears, one of which held a chain attached to a ring in her left nostril. She had her right eyebrow pierced, had her nipples pierced, her navel, and a clit ring.  
  
Beyond the aesthetics of it, punk also gave her an outlet for the anger she carried around. She never knew her father - she had her mother's surname, an alcoholic who'd left Belfast during the Troubles, along with her mother's sister, but her aunt didn't drink anymore, had been sober for some time. She had an uncle, dead of the Troubles.  
  
Frankie wanted to feel sorry for her mother, but it was hard to do when her mother was a mean drunk. Meanest of all when she'd caught Frankie with a girl, and read her the riot act about sin and Hell, conveniently forgetting that drunkenness was also a sin. Frankie's mother forced her to her knees and beat her with a Bible. It wasn't the first time Frankie's mother had been like this, but it was the worst time, ending with telling her to get out.  
  
Frankie's own aunt was a lesbian - she and Frankie's mother had stopped talking not long after coming to England together - and Frankie called her, in tears. Since that time she'd been living in the flat above the coffee shop her aunt Siobhan owned, simply called It's A Coffee House, where she worked as assistant manager, just enough to make ends meet. Maybe buy some vinyl records now and again.  
  
Frankie did a twirl in the mirror - she was wearing a shirt that was the album cover of London Calling by The Clash, over red plaid pants, and her usual steel-toed Doc Martens boots. She had assorted rings on her fingers, all silver, spiked leather bracelets on both wrists, and some silver bangles on both arms. Around her neck was a spiked leather dog collar, and a thick silver rope chain. Her grey-blue eyes were usually behind glasses, with square black frames, but she'd left the glasses off today, and added a touch of mascara. She'd re-dyed her mohawk yesterday, so it was bright pink. She added some blood-red lipstick, and decided she was good to go, heading out to take the Tube.  
  
The club was crowded, and crowds made her a bit nervous, but there was an energy in the air that was infectious, and this was why she went to these kinds of events. There was something about dancing at a punk show that made her feel alive, made her blood sing, like she was some sort of warrior queen preparing for battle, training to tribal drums. The pit could get a bit rough, but it was all in good fun, outsider weirdos among their kind.  
  
She was getting into it, like she always did. And then she felt a hand groping her ass.  
  
She whirled around, white-hot fury. "EXCUSE?"  
  
A dirty-looking guy who had a foot on her, with a blue mohawk and bad teeth, wearing leather and a lot of chains, leered. "Just admiring the art at the art show," he said.  
  
Frankie glared. "I'm not interested. Don't touch me again."  
  
"Aw, what's the matter, sweetie?" He reached out and grabbed one of her tits. "I could show you a good time."  
  
"You heard her. Leave her alone," came a voice behind him, soft but powerful, deep, with a strange but pleasant accent.  
  
"Eh, back off, mate, this bint is mine." The creep moved closer, with a lewd wink.  
  
Frankie gave him a hard shove. "I said piss off, wanker."  
  
The creep staggered back, and for a minute Frankie thought he was going to take the hint and go away, but then he walked back towards her - clearly not intimidated, since he towered over her and all. "A little fight in you." He grinned. "Feisty. I like that." He reached out towards Frankie's crotch.  
  
Just before he could grab, his arm was grabbed, and he was thrown down to the floor. A man standing six feet or so, with longish curly dark hair, a beard and mustache, wearing a Joy Division shirt and skinny jeans, wiry build, started kicking the shit out of him with his own set of Doc Martens. He had a feral look in his dark eyes, as if watching her get almost molested had  _really_  set him off. "She said  _leave her alone_ , so fucking leave her alone, you fucking arsehole!" the man yelled, and when the creep looked over his shoulder, sneering, he got backhanded.  
  
The man looked at Frankie. "Are you all right?"  
  
"Yeh. Ta." She nodded.  
  
The creep wasn't done. He shoved her white knight, and came at him with his fists. The two got into an all-out brawl. The creep was all out for vengeance now, but the more he came at the man, the harder he fought back, almost like the pain was feeding his wrath - Frankie thought of Viking berserkers, watching him, half-expecting him to take his shirt off. By the time the club security rushed in to break it up, the man had knocked out one of the creep's teeth and broken his nose. The club wasn't going to call the police, but the show was over, and the man was being escorted out by bouncers, swearing all the while in a foreign language over his shoulder, giving the finger and the V, still angry as hell.  
  
Frankie was getting some dirty looks, as if she had somehow caused the show to be over prematurely all by herself, and she stepped out as quietly as she could. She saw the man walking outside the club, and she put her fingers in her mouth and whistled. "Ey! You!" she yelled.  
  
The man stopped, and turned around. Frankie waved and gave a shy smile.  
  
He paused in his tracks, and Frankie ran up to him. "Uh, thanks," she said.  
  
"No need to thank me. I'm just doing what any decent bloke would do." The man glared. "I shouldn't have been the only one giving that guy hell."  
  
"No, you shouldn't. But you did." She stood up on her tiptoes, instinctively reaching out to the man's face, which was already starting to bruise. "Oof, we should get you some ice for that, yeah?"  
  
They went to a McDonald's, got lunch together - he insisted on paying for both of them - and in addition to food, Frankie asked for a cup of just ice. As she tended to his face, Frankie said, "I'll let you handle the other bruises."  
  
The man chuckled. "I wouldn't ask you to do that, anyway."  
  
"Good." Frankie raised an eyebrow. "You're not doing the 'damsel in distress' thing to try to get down my pants, are you?"  
  
A fuller laugh now. "No." A pause. "I'm gay."  
  
Frankie smiled and nodded. "I'm a lesbian."  
  
He took her hand. "If I wasn't gay, though, I'd be asking you  _politely_  on a date. You're very pretty."  
  
Frankie almost snorted her soda. "People have called me a lot of things. Pretty isn't usually one of them."  
  
"You're striking. You don't look like everyone else. It's a nice look." His fingers traced the vine tattoo on her arm, and she saw the fire sleeve on his own arm.  
  
"Oh wow," she said, reaching out to touch it. She noticed the waves on the other arm. "That's beautiful work."  
  
"You should see my back. I designed what's on my back."  
  
"I have work on my back too." Frankie smirked. "You know, we're talking about tattoos on body parts usually covered by clothing and we don't even know each other's names."  
  
"Oh, right." He facepalmed. "I'm pretty socially awkward, sorry about that." He smiled. "I'm Sören."  
  
"Sören." She liked the sound of that, and the way it sounded in his accent, with the gently rolled r. "I'm Frankie."  
  
"It's nice to meet you."  
  
"Same." Frankie sipped her soda. "You're not from around here, I take it."  
  
"Reykjavik." Nervous laughter.   
  
"Oh, cool. I have a great-great grandfather from Iceland, according to me aunt who's into genealogy and things, he left after that, ah... volcano? erupted in the late 1800s."  
  
"Really? I moved here a couple months ago, after..." A little frown. "Some stuff. An explosion of my own, I suppose you could say. Or more like an implosion."  
  
"Bad stuff, yeah?"  
  
"It's a long story."  
  
"Well..." Frankie took a deep breath. "It's my birthday -"  
  
"Oh, happy birthday! How old are you now?"  
  
"Twenty."  
  
Sören laughed again. "You're just a baby."  
  
Frankie glared. "The fuck I am not, you can't be much older than me, can you?"  
  
"I'll be thirty-one in November."  
  
Frankie raised her eyebrows. "You look young."  
  
"I'm told that a lot. If I didn't have the facial hair I'd look even younger." Sören gestured to her. "So, back to it being your birthday -"  
  
"I don't have much to do, but I have a little cake waiting for me at home, if you want to come back to my flat?"  
  
"I'd like that."  
  
At Frankie's flat above It's A Coffee House, they had cake, listened to Sex Pistols on vinyl, and Sören took off his shirt - Frankie noticed his nipples were pierced - and showed him the phoenixes on his back, one made of fire, one made of water.  
  
"That's fucking bloody gorgeous," Frankie said. "And you  _designed_  that?"  
  
Sören turned around and pulled his Joy Division shirt back on. "I paint," he said, nodding. "It's part of why I went to the art show. Was seeing what I had to do to show some of my work there."  
  
"You totally should, if it's anything like that."  
  
"I do a mix of things. Landscapes, people." Sören sat down. "I'd like to paint you, actually."  
  
"Me?" Frankie chuckled. "I'm not sure anyone would want to look at that -"  
  
"Nonsense. Besides, when I paint people, I usually... don't paint them as they normally look day to day." Sören made a vague hand gesture, searching for words. "It's hard to explain. I'd have to show you." Then he smiled. "But now it's your turn."  
  
"Yeah, all right." Frankie got up. "I can't believe I'm doing this." She took her shirt off.  
  
"I may prefer men, but you have nice tits."  
  
Frankie threw her shirt at him, cackling. She turned around and gave him the view of her own ink.  
  
"Oh, my fucking god." She heard Sören gasp.  
  
"You like it?"  
  
"Um."  
  
Frankie turned around sharply and glared, her hands on her hips. "What, you don't like it?"  
  
"Oh no, I like it very much. I just. Uh." Sören made another vague hand gesture and reached nervously for the glass of Sprite sitting next to him. "I think I should show you something. It's back at my flat." Sören sipped, looking nervous, like a deer trapped in headlights. "It's relevant to the work you have done."  
  
Frankie normally wouldn't go back with a near-stranger to their flat, but there was something about Sören that made her feel safe around him, like the big brother she always wanted and never had.  
  
Sören's flat was a tiny, sad single-room occupancy in a derelict-looking building. The room was clean, and he'd brightened it up a bit with posters and a few odds-and-ends - Frankie smiled at the Eeyore doll on his bed - but it made her sad to see him living in a place like that, remembering her own experience growing up in council housing. Sören had an easel set up near a table against the wall, with paints and brushes strewn out over the table. Sören went under his bed and pulled out a large plastic-wrapped bundle.  
  
Inside were several canvases, themselves individually wrapped, and tagged. Sören unwrapped one, and handed it to Frankie. It was the phoenixes, in the backdrop of space, and their tails were twined, hooked through the top of an eight-pointed flaming star, shining with rainbows.  
  
"Oh." Frankie's eyes widened, staring at the star. It was like the stylized one she had on the back of her neck. " _Oh._ "  
  
"Oh indeed." Sören nodded. "Interesting coincidence, yes?"  
  
"I already liked you, but now we  _have_  to be friends."  
  
Over the next several weeks Sören and Frankie spent a lot of time together when they didn't have to work - most of the time Sören went to Frankie's flat, since there wasn't really space in his room to entertain company. They didn't always stay there, sometimes going on trips to galleries and museums and parks. Frankie liked watching Sören draw, and she encouraged him to try to show his work, happy for him when he landed a show.  
  
The night before his show, she got a call from his cell. "Yo," she said.  
  
"Can I come over and take a shower?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"The water's broken over here."  
  
Frankie frowned. She'd been feeling guilty every time he went home back to  _that_  - she'd made him stay overnight more than once, the two of them cuddling platonically in her bed like siblings, just so she could try to spoil him a little, she didn't have much but she felt like a king compared to him. "How long has the water been out?"  
  
"Ah, since yesterday. The landlord says he'll get on it -"  
  
"Bullshit." She took a deep breath and got the nerve to say what she wanted to tell him that first night they hung out. "Pack your shit, you're moving into the spare bedroom."  
  
Now it was Sören's turn to say "what."  
  
"You heard me. Get your arse down here. You're on a month to month over there, it's not like you can't leave, and I'm not having you live like that anymore. Rent here wouldn't be much more than what you're paying there, and you'd better be able to afford it if you came to work downstairs, anyway."  
  
Sören showed up an hour and a half later, wheeling three suitcases, and he'd hired one of his neighbors to help him with the rest, carting two hand trucks. Sören didn't have much, but he was cautious about how he transported his art supplies.  
  
They made macaroni and cheese with tuna in it, which was what they had on hand, and sat in the living room, eating to the sound of Siouxsie and the Banshees on vinyl. "I really appreciate this," Sören said.  
  
Frankie hugged him. "I have your back. You're a brother to me."  
  
  
_  
  
  
A few weeks after Sören moved in with Frankie, he had a second hookup with someone from Grindr. Sören spent the weekend with the guy, and then he brought him back to the flat to have coffee.  
  
"This is Justin," Sören said. "Justin Roberts."  
  
Justin looked at Frankie like she was something the cat dragged in. "How d'you do," he said curtly.  
  
"Hey." Frankie nodded. She looked at Sören. "You normally don't bring guys back here."  
  
"I normally don't see Grindr dudes more than once." Sören blushed. "We... had fun."  
  
"We did indeed." Justin grinned at him. "We're going to have a lot more fun, I think."  He fiddled with a white gold ring on his right hand.  
  
Sören bit his lower lip and did that thing with crinkling his nose that Frankie would have been all over if she was into him like that. Justin certainly reacted to it. "You are so cute," Justin purred, reaching out to tousle Sören's curls.  
  
Sören seemed happy - and Frankie wanted him to be happy, he'd told her the tragic story of that cunt Alejandro who'd stomped on his heart  _I better not ever meet him or he'll catch these hands_  and all the lonely nights of fuckbuddies and one-night-stands. He didn't feel very good about himself, which was ridiculous considering he was gorgeous, talented, and an incredibly sweet guy.  
  
But there was something about Justin... she didn't know what... that she didn't like. She told herself she was probably just reacting to his looks, as he reminded her of the boys who'd given her a hard time about being a chubby, nerdy, short ginger when she was a schoolgirl. Justin was taller than Sören, the muscular build of an athlete, short-cropped sandy blonde hair, blue eyes. He looked like a male model, with pleasant features and a perfect toothpaste smile, and he dressed preppy. Frankie was honestly surprised Sören went for him, he usually liked brunet men or silver fox daddy types, and Justin seemed younger than Sören, early twenties or so, when Sören usually went for older. She didn't want to be judgmental of someone's looks, the same way she didn't like being judged, assumed to be a hooligan because of her punk rock appearance, but she couldn't shake the feeling there was something  _off_  with him.  
  
She still tried to manage a smile and be polite. "So, uh, Justin, what do you do?"  
  
"I play football for FC Arsenal."  
  
She liked him even less now.  _Come on, be fair._  "Oh. Football."  
  
"He's not a dumb jock," Sören said. "We were talking about history and stuff."  
  
"When we didn't have our mouths full." Justin snogged him.  
  
If Frankie was a cat, her claws would come out and she would hiss  _you get away from him!_  She felt embarrassed by her reaction -  _it's not like I'm in love with Sören or anything_  - but it wasn't jealousy. She just... didn't like this guy.  
  
She would be nice, for now, but she was going to keep an eye on him.  
  
  
_  
  
  
**2016**  
  
It didn't take long for Frankie's gut instinct to prove itself true, once again. Sometimes she hated that she knew things about people, and she knew Justin Roberts was a grade-A arsehole.  
  
Justin had just shown up, making his way down to Sören's room without saying a word to her, just that evil look he gave her whenever he had to be in the same space as her. He had a couple duffel bags with him even though he was just spending the night - he was fucking high-maintenance, Frankie never needed that much stuff if she was just going to her girlfriend's or her girlfriend was coming here. Sören was in the bedroom painting, and she heard Justin let out a sigh of disgust as he entered.  
  
"Where the fuck d'you expect me to put these with your bloody art supplies everywhere?"  
  
"You can put them down on the floor by the bed -"  
  
Justin snorted. "I don't even know why you're wasting your time with that shit."  
  
"We've been over this. It's what I do. I can no more stop making art than I can stop breathing."  
  
"It's a stupid hobby. Your work isn't that great, you know?"  
  
"I don't care if it's good or not. I care if I express myself."  
  
_This is why he stopped looking at places to show his work, stopped talking about showing it anywhere._  Frankie swallowed hard. She thought about barging in and saying something, throwing him out, but -  
  
There was the sound of something being  _thrown_ , and Sören let out a cry. "What the  _fuck_  are you doing?"  
  
"I don't have any place to put my things, because you have all that  _shit_  out. Taking up space. Taking up  _my_  time." His voice was softer. " _Our_  time."  
  
"You know how many fucking hours I spent working on that, and now it's  _ruined_?"  
  
"It was already ruined."  
  
Sören started crying. "How can you claim to care about me, claim to love me, and say things like that? You know I don't give a fuck about sports and I try to support you doing football because it's important to you, but you can't give me the same courtesy with my art?"  
  
"Would you listen to yourself? You're such a... stereotype... sometimes. Jesus Christ. Such a drama queen, a fucking snowflake."  
  
Sören's crying got louder. He was starting to have an asthma attack, too - he'd been having a lot of those lately, probably due to the stress Justin put him through.  
  
That was it. Frankie walked down the hall and banged loudly on the door, even though it was open. "Hey Justin?" she said. "Piss off."  
  
"I'm sorry, was this any of your FUCKING business?" Justin snapped, and the look in his eyes scared her.  
  
She stood her ground. She looked at the smear of wet paint on the wall, and then on the floor where the painting had fallen, the painting smeared now. She felt like crying, looking at it.  
  
Sören puffed on his inhaler, and their eyes met. Frankie didn't know how anyone could want to hurt Sören the way Justin hurt him, it was like hurting a puppy, right down to those sad dark brown puppy dog eyes.  
  
"Frankie," Sören said apologetically, "let us handle this by ourselves, please."  
  
"Yeah, you'd  _better_  let us sort this out," Justin said with gritted teeth, his fist clenching. Frankie was to take that as a threat.  
  
Frankie continued to stand for a moment, but then she went back to her room. "Right," she said. She felt terrible about leaving.  
  
"That mouthy fat cow you live with needs to learn some manners," Frankie heard Justin snarl.  
  
"You know..." Sören sounded angry now. "You're crossing a line making fun of Frankie. That's my best friend, she's like a sister to me, and I don't appreciate you being disrespectful of her, talking shit about her weight, or talking shit about  _anyone's_  weight or appearance in general. You know how superficial that is? When you'd tried so very hard to prove to me you weren't a dumb jock? You're sure acting like it now."  
  
There was a crash, and the sound of more things being slammed around, and Sören screamed, "WHAT THE FUCK? DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH THOSE ART SUPPLIES COST?"  
  
"Everything I have in those bags is worth more than your precious fucking  _art_  supplies," Justin snarled, "or the entire catalogue of your precious fucking  _art._  It isn't just Frankie who needs to learn some manners, it's you."  
  
Sören was sobbing again. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"  
  
"What the fuck is wrong with  _you_?"  
  
Frankie came down again. "If you don't stop throwing shit  _right now_ , I'm calling the fucking police."  
  
"You go ahead and do that," Justin said. "I'm sure they'd be thrilled to know you have pot here. What was it you bought the other day, an ounce? That's a lot of weed to be busted with."  
  
Frankie took a deep breath.  
  
"Don't call the police," Sören said. "We'll..."  
  
"Yeah, I'll calm down." Justin looked at Frankie, playing with the ring on his right hand again. "Be a luv and fetch me some water, yeah?"  
  
"Get your own fucking water," Frankie said. "You don't get to boss me around like you do Sören, and you shouldn't be bossing him around, either." She glared at Sören, wishing there was some way to get through his thick skull he deserved better than this, before turning on her heel.  
  
She heard Justin flop down on the bed. "I'm sorry," he said.  
  
"I just." Sören sighed. "Why did you DO that?"  
  
"I had a rough night again. I had those dreams... the fire. That burning eye." Justin sounded close to tears himself. "The voice of my father, screaming at me, all the shit he used to say to me."  
  
"Oh, honey. I understand. But you really... you got to get some anger management classes, or something."  
  
"Yeah. I know I need help. It's just hard talking about this shit to people, you know? And what would me mates think if they found out I was in therapy, if it was leaked that football star was getting 'psychiatric counseling'."  
  
"Well, there should be privacy laws here where that shit shouldn't get out to begin with -"  
  
"Someone could see me go to and from a doctor's office. And really, Sören, I'm not like you. I'm not... good with feelings. I'll buy you new paints, I guess. I still think that you're better off doing something else with your life, like going back to school, getting a good job. A normal job."  
  
"I'll never be normal."  
  
"You'll never be normal when you keep telling yourself that, Sören. If you cared about me, if you cared about  _us_ , and our future, you could try harder."  
  
_Sören doesn't need to be normal. He's wonderful the way he is, you horrible CUNT_ , Frankie wanted to scream down the hall, but she didn't.  
  
Justin was just like the arseholes her mum used to date, and Frankie was flashbacking now, thinking about it, the way they'd lose their temper and go off on her mum, and she'd have to be the adult and clean up the mess, tend her mother's bruises. She was paralyzed by fear, gripping blankets white-knuckled, sick to her stomach.  
  
  
_  
  
_3 months later_  
  
Sören had the day off, and Frankie was down in the coffee shop, with her aunt and two other employees. But it was a slow day, and Frankie was feeling a little nauseated for some reason. Must be something she ate, or maybe her period was coming early.  
  
_Or maybe there's something going on._  A "storm warning", she'd call moments like this, intuition blaring warning bells in her head, her body.  
  
She felt a shiver, and looked at her arms, breaking into gooseflesh.  
  
"I'm gonna clock out and head upstairs," she told Siobhan. "I don't feel so good."  
  
"I understand. We'll man the fort here." Siobhan patted her.  
  
Frankie went upstairs. She expected Sören to be at Justin's flat, but she could hear their voices. Loud. Judging from the distance, they were in the kitchen. Frankie turned the key and went in very, very quietly, not closing the door behind her, hanging to one side of the living room wall so she wouldn't be seen.  
  
"I should have stuck to what I said a few weeks ago when I told you I wanted you gone," Sören said. He was crying again. "After you  _raped_  me."  
  
"You know you wanted it," Justin said. "You know you still want me." His voice dropped. "You know nobody else will want you."  
  
"What I want? Is for this... this  _insanity_  to be over. You keep apologizing for the shit you do, you tell me 'baby I'll change' and it's a honeymoon period of wining and dining and having fun, but then it all comes back to this. You don't love me. You're using me. You couldn't possibly love me, because you don't  _understand_  me. You make fun of me, especially my art, which is something I put a piece of my fucking soul into -"  
  
"There you go again with your bloody fucking art. You love your art more than me!"  
  
Sören laughed. "You sound like you're jealous."  
  
"Jealous? I told you, your art isn't that fucking good. But it's not like you've ever painted me, either. Instead you paint that fat fucking cow you live with -"  
  
"I told you to stop mocking her weight, and I meant it." Sören sneered, showing his teeth. "And yes, I painted Frankie. She's beautiful  _to me_."  
  
"Fuckin' painted her in armor with that stupid fucking star on her stupid fucking neck, and a sword and a bloody shield. The bitch can't lift more than a fucking soda bottle."  
  
Frankie thought about saying something then, but her gut instinct told her to keep quiet, and wait. She watched them - Sören was leaning up against the kitchen counter, and Justin was close to him, in his personal space, a couple meters away from their makeshift kitchen table with its steel folding chairs.  
  
"You need to stop," Sören said. "But you're proving my point about why I haven't painted you. If I did paint you? You wouldn't like it. You know that scene from the first Hobbit movie, with the orcs?  _That's you._ " Sören pointed towards the door. "Now get you gone."  
  
Justin came closer to him. "No."  Then he backhanded Sören.  
  
_Now._  Silently, like a stalking cat, Frankie moved forward. The man scared her, but she was on an adrenaline rush. She snatched one of the steel folding chairs. "HEY! Twat!"  
  
Justin turned around. Frankie slammed the chair into him once, twice, three times.  
  
He went down.  
  
While he was rolling on the floor in pain, Frankie grabbed the tail of his shirt and began to  _drag_. Justin was right about her not being physically strong at all - she had no idea where this sudden surge of power came from, but there it was. She moved down the stairs, dragging him roughly, making sure he bumped on every step. "Fuckin' arsehole," she snarled as she dragged him. "Fuckin' piece of SHIT, you worthless fucking CUNT, you can go to bloody fucking HELL!"  
  
When Justin was on the curb, too frozen in pain to get up, Frankie kicked him in the balls with her steel-toed Doc Martens. Then she  _stomped_ , savoring the way he screamed.  
  
She loomed over him, all of five feet tall, feeling like she was twenty feet. She didn't raise her voice, but it sounded like a deafening roar. "You stay away from Sören," she said. "He doesn't want you, and you're not to come back here anymore, this is MY flat too, and that is MY rule. And if you don't stay away, and I find out you EVER lay a hand on him again... that. Will. Be.  _The last time you ever HAVE a hand._ "  
  
Frankie kicked him one more time for good measure. "I won't stop there, either. Maybe I'll stab you, mess that pretty face of yours. Or cut off your little three-centimeter cock."  
  
Their eyes met, and held, and then Frankie spat on him and stormed upstairs.  
  
Sören had been watching the whole thing from the window, and then he turned to look at Frankie, but it seemed like he was staring at something far away. He had that look on his face before, when he and Justin got into it.  
  
Frankie locked the door, locked the deadbolt, and then she came over and hugged Sören tight. "He's gone," she said.  
  
He dropped to his knees, shaking, and she held him as he cried like a baby. Up against the kitchen counter, Frankie rocked him, petting his curls, making soothing noises. "He's gone. It's OK. It's all right."  
  
"You put yourself in danger," Sören choked out. "He's bigger than you are -"  
  
"I handled it."  
  
"Frankie." Sören looked up. "I feel like such a fucking coward." He sniffed. "The first time he hit me, I hit him back, and he whaled on me..." He shuddered. "I learned not to fight back. Just like I stopped fighting back with my uncle Einar, till I -" He stopped himself from finishing that sentence; Frankie wondered why, but wouldn't press it. "He scared me, so much. I'm a scared fucking coward."  
  
"You're not a coward at all, luv." Frankie kissed the top of his head. "He broke you. But we're going to put you back, together."  
  
Sören sobbed again, and leaned on her.  
  
A few moments passed, and Sören calmed down a little, and then Frankie said, "He raped you?"  
  
Sören looked away, looked down, and then he nodded.  
  
"You should call the police, put his arse in jail -"  
  
"Do you know how fucking hard that is to prosecute, especially without DNA evidence? And it may be 2016, but don't think for a moment that we wouldn't be in there, as two gay men, and not be dealing with prejudice in the court system. Please. He's not even out of the closet. Golden boy of football, Justin Roberts, acts straight, his word against mine." Sören shook his head. "I don't want to have to relive that all over again to try to lock him up." The tears came again. "Like I told you, I'm a coward."  
  
Frankie hugged him tight. "Shhhh. You're not a coward, Sören." She pet him. "You're more of a man than he will ever be."  
  
"I really hate the 'be a man' shit in society, it's sexist and toxic, but OK."  
  
Frankie kissed his forehead.  
  
Justin left after awhile - Frankie assumed he drove off - and they both kept a nervous watch at the window, waiting for the police in case Justin pressed charges for assault, but the police never showed up. Eventually, they got pizza, and that night Sören slept in Frankie's bed for the first time in months, curling up like two cats. Frankie held him.  
  
"It's going to be OK," she soothed.  
  
"I'm sorry you've had to deal with him being here, being like this -"  
  
"It's over now." She managed a smile and twined one of Sören's stray curls around her finger. "And listen. This is what family does."  
  
Sören nuzzled her and nodded. "You should meet my sister Margrét. The two of you would like each other very much, I think."  
  
"I can't afford to go to Iceland, unfortunately."  
  
"Neither can I, right now, but maybe we can save up and take a vacation there in a couple years? My family would adopt you, I think."  
  
Frankie squeezed him. "That would be nice, considering I don't have much family to speak of." She resumed petting him. "You rest now, OK?"  
  
Sören sighed. "I'm still so wound up."  
  
"Here. I'll sing to you." She thought of something to sing, and then she thought of a song she'd heard on an American sitcom once.  
  
_Soft kitty, warm kitty  
Little ball of fur  
Happy kitty, sleepy kitty  
Purr, purr, purr_  
  
Sören laughed, and booped her nose. Then he closed his eyes, resting on her shoulder. Outside, the rain started to fall.


End file.
